Man On (The Black Jack Gentlemen)

by Liz Crowe

  The game commenced and within minutes, calling on his years of experience, Parker realized he could not play. His presence presented a detriment. He’d make mistakes, and cost his team this crucial game.

  Gritting his teeth against a near constant hum of nausea and pain, he moved the ball around, passed it off when he should have taken shots, ignoring caustic commentary from the sidelines. His own teammates kept yelling at him, and he lost his normal ability to manage the field leaving teammates floundering and playing kick ball instead of the level of soccer that got them to the collegiate championship game in the first place.

  “Nice try, loser.” The opposing player slammed into him and stole the ball with a move Parker had learned how to thwart in middle school. “Now get out of my way.” The yellow-uniformed player eased past Parker’s defenders, planting the ball square in the upper right of the goal. A groan rose from the sold-out crowd, but he remained frozen in place.

  Trained to take a full ninety minutes or more of constant running and contact, Parker dreaded the inevitable request for a substitute. He loved this damn game. Had loved it nearly his whole life. The combination of a concussion and the emotion over leaving the field on this, his final game, almost brought him to his knees.

  He persevered through halftime, redeeming himself at the thirty-fifth minute of play with a strategic shift to the left and a feed to his forward, which drew the defenders off goal, allowing him to take the return pass and plant it firmly in the back of the net.

  The resulting congratulatory scrum nearly made him pass out, but he kept on, and at the break the score remained one-one. He gulped down Gatorade and tried not to meet his coach’s eyes.

  “Goddammit, Doc.” The man yanked his face around, ending the little charade. “Where the hell is your head?” The trainer pushed the coach aside and knelt in front of him, holding out a singlet indicating his ass would be planted at least for the start of the second half.

  “No way, I need him in there,” the coach sputtered but lost the battle to the older man who had a thriving orthopedics practice and a lifelong love for soccer and took his role of “team medical advisor” seriously. He put a hand on Parker’s shoulder.

  “He sits, or he risks brain injury. Period.” The coach slunk off, shooting an eye full of evil at the kid who’d popped his star midfielder in the noggin during yesterday’s scrimmage. Parker sat back, taking deep breaths, trying to keep his lunch down.

  The team readied itself and took the field again while Parker watched from a completely unique perspective on the sidelines. He’d been a starter from the get-go and his stomach roiled with misery having to sit now.

  At the eighty-second minute of play he stood and started pacing, calling out instructions based on how he observed the other team shifting to adjust to Louisville’s pace. He watched in horror as Chris Singleton, their star forward, slated for a huge contract in the English Premier league went up to head in a goal and a defender came out of nowhere, undercutting him and forcing the man to land funny, buckling an ankle in sickening slow motion. Parker yanked off his singlet and stood, staring at the trainer and coach, daring them to say no.

  They didn’t. He rushed out, slapping a high five to Chris as he was helped off the field. The scoreboard told the story. He had exactly three minutes to end this thing or risk overtime. He fully realized his team did not fare well past ninety minutes into penalty play. They were gassed and needed to finish this off in regular time.

  Calling out a few quick changes he repositioned his defenders four back, and shoved a forward to mid so he could set up a play they’d worked on for the last six months, with himself in scoring position.

  The men readjusted without comment, and the whistle blew. The second they threw in, the re-aligned midfield took control, passing and keeping the ball away from the other team’s aggressive forwards long enough to draw the opposing defenders into the fray at the center of the field. He made his way across the front of the goal and lifted a hand as the clock ticked towards ninety minutes. Accepting the long pass, he faked to his right then nailed it with his left foot, planting the ball firmly in the back left corner as the horn sounded, signaling the end of the game.

  Rafe stood smiling as the Cardinal fans took the field, swarming over their team and its star captain, Parker Rollings. Then he made his way down after a few minutes and tapped the coach on the shoulder, flashing his credentials.

  Soaked from a cooler full of Gatorade, the coach followed Rafe to the other side of the field. Several other MLS scouts and even one from La Liga floated around, but Rafe’s own star power as a former World Cup level player and the amount of hype the marketing department had pumped out about his team gave him the entrée he needed.

  The two men sat on the empty bench and observed the celebrations. “So I assume you’re here about Parker. He’s one of my only players not signed.”

  “Yeah. I am. Can I talk to him?”

  “Sure. I mean, officially, but he won’t go. He’s already turned down bigger names than yours. He’s done with soccer after today, at least as a player.”

  “Uh-huh. Something tells me after this game, he might change his tune.” Rafe used a confident tone, hoping to convince the coach to help him.

  “Good luck. He’s a quiet kid but amazingly smart and talented, as you and many others realize. A waste of a great player if you ask me. But he’s bound by what his parents want, and they want a doctor, not a professional athlete in the family.” The coach put a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Son, if you can convince him to play for your startup team, you will not only be the envy of every American scout and several European ones, you will make my fucking day.” He stood. “Excuse me, I gotta go celebrate. I’ll send Parker over.”

  Parker stared hard at his girlfriend of nearly four years and willed her to not be so obtuse. Her huge eyes filled with tears as she kept talking, kept touching him while he packed his bag.

  “Honey, I don’t mind. I get it. I…I think you should keep playing, really.” He slammed the suitcase shut and looked up at the bare walls of his apartment before whirling around to face her.

  “No, Christie, you do mind. You wanted me to go to med school as much as my parents did, so just can it, will you please?” He put his hands on his hips, suddenly sorry for his harsh words. The urge to be away from her overwhelmed him to the point he had to grit his teeth not to say something worse. “It’s over.”

  She sucked in a breath. “You don’t mean that.” Crossing her arms, she took a step away. Parker watched as if from miles away as he picked up his suitcase and started for the door.

  “I’m sorry, Christie. But I do. I’m going to Detroit to play soccer. I’m not going to med school in Ann Arbor. I’m not giving you an engagement ring. Actually, I’m breaking up with you.” She grabbed his arm. He winced at his own words. “Let go of me. We’re through.”

  “No. Parker. I love you. You love me, I know you do. You’re just unhappy and confused.” Her sudden self-righteous look made him want to yell and throw something—like his fist—through the drywall.

  “And you can stop channeling my mother. You are not going to be the next Mrs. Doctor Rollings, okay?” He jerked his arm out of her grasp. A montage of their years together ran through his head. The early weeks of awkward flirtation…her thrill at being the girlfriend of the school’s soccer star…the other girls who threw themselves at him and her smugness when he rebuffed them…the moment they took the last step beyond heavy petting and the hours since spent exploring each other’s bodies. While an extreme fantasy life played out in his head, dreaming of different sorts of bodies under his hands, of long lean torsos and rough faces against his. He sighed and turned back to her, putting a hand to her cheek.

  “You deserve better than me, Chris. I’m no good for you. Not anymore. It’s not you, I swear it. It really is me. I’m not who you think I am.”

  “You’re exactly who I think you are, Parker. A passive aggressive shithead.” She flounced past
him and threw open the door. “All those nights we laid in my bed and talked about our future. All the times we….” She bit her lip, and Parker shut his eyes so he wouldn’t be tempted to take it all back just for the sake of avoiding this very confrontation.

  He hated this, despised disappointing people. He had loved her, in his way. But his new goal shone like a bright beacon of hope—to continue to play soccer away from his nagging parents and overbearing girlfriend. He set his jaw, stayed quiet, and let her have her say.

  “Never mind. Go. Play your stupid game on that stupid team. I hate you and hope I never see you again.” The last spoken at decibels Parker figured deafened dogs in a three-mile radius. His heart sank in his chest at the sight of her familiar hair, face, body as she glared at him. His head jerked back at her slap, but he took it, twice, before gripping her wrist.

  “Enough. I’m sorry.” He kept his voice low, his temper under tight control as always. His upbringing as the only child of strict, boring Presbyterians whose biggest fear was “making a scene” truly left him no choice. Even on the field he managed to be the one star player without a hot-headed tendency to lose it in a fit of emotion. Talented, calm, and strong were three adjectives always added to his name as a player.

  He was a natural leader, coaches always said, but prone to bouts of introspection—as if that were a bad thing. Never had a single red card and only one yellow warning only because he had yelled at a ref to stop play on behalf of an injured player on the opposite team.

  His college sweetheart, the one and only sexual partner of his entire life, despite spirited attempts on the part of many soccer player groupies to change it, stared at him. “You’ll be sorry, Parker. You aren’t cut out for that kind of life. Those pros, they’re gonna rip you to shreds. You….” She threw up her hands and let a tear slip down her face. Parker stood still, using all of his willpower not to fold her into his arms, to apologize, and go back to the status quo.

  Everything in him he truly believed part and parcel of Parker “Doc” Rollings rebelled at this scene. But for the first time in his life he felt compelled to resist what others expected of him—to reach out for what he wanted.

  Being a jerk did not come naturally. He felt like a class-A one and hated it. He’d watched so many of his friends and teammates through the years channel their aggression into asshole behavior against women, but he’d managed to stay above the bullshit, content with Christie.

  She turned and left without another word, as panic settled deep in his gut. His family had temporarily disowned him for this bout of rebellion, and he had just cut off his one remaining tie to the life he’d led for the last four years—well, for his whole boring, planned-out destiny, he supposed.

  He caught sight of himself in the hall mirror. Tall, dark blond hair and blue eyes, jaw rough from lack of attention these past couple of days, he grimaced at himself. Happy now, Doc? You just threw away everything you know for this fucking game. Better get the hell up to Detroit and make the best of it.

  He squared his shoulders and walked out into a new reality. The niggling doubt and worry about how he could channel his growing sexual desire still remained. But he’d made his choice. Being a pro athlete left zero room for alternative lifestyles, and he knew it.

  He’d find another girl, likely marry, and have some kids; being gay no longer was an option. In the meantime, this break had to be complete, including the sexual one with Christie. He felt strong but weak at the same time. Sure of himself, yet gut-churning terrified. All of which buoyed him, and made him even more positive about his decision.

  Chapter Five

  Rafe groaned and rolled over, throwing an arm over the swell of Maureen’s stomach. “Jesus, woman, you are gonna kill me.”

  “Complaining are we, stud muffin?” The beautiful, amazing woman who’d changed his life forever stretched her long legs and sighed. “I warned you, remember? In spite of my birth control shots, bam, I’m knocked up. Your Latino swimmers are a very determined lot.”

  “But my love, you are voracious.” Rafe propped up on an elbow and ran his finger across her lips. “I mean, more than usual.”

  “Yep. And it will only get worse.” She grinned and grabbed his fingertip between her teeth, then gasped and sat straight up making a bolt of panic hit his brain. He scrambled up beside her.

  “What, querida, you okay? Shit, did I hurt you? You kept telling me to go harder. Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair and stared at her, worry gnawing at his gut at the sight of her bright red face.

  The smile she shot him as she grabbed his hand and put it against the tight swell of her belly made him temporarily forget how to breathe. The strange, fluttery movement under his palm alarmed him more than anything he’d ever experienced. He jerked his hand away. His wife raised an eyebrow at him, making him feel like a shithead.

  “What, did you think I was kidding all this time? Just gaining weight for the fun of it? That’s your kid in there, Inez. The one you wanted.” He stared at her, then put his hand on her stomach again, mesmerized by the activity under his palm. A tear dropped on his hand, surprising him.

  “Oh, Maureen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  She shook her head. “No, I know. I’m an emotional wreck and that’s only gonna get worse too, lucky you. But I do love you, Rafe. This,” she held his hand in place as they felt their child move inside her, “just proves it.”

  He leaned in to capture her delicious lips, felt his body stirring to attention again in spite of the workout she’d given him last night and this morning.

  She moaned and rolled onto her back, pulling him on top of her. “Now you get the idea,” she whispered as he parted her legs and slipped inside her once more, body and soul sated by their connection.

  Fear stole into his psyche as he sat at the kitchen table, nursing his second espresso.

  “Morning.” Rafe shifted his attention to the young man who wandered into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes. “Training today?” Adam, half of a set of twins, lived at home for the summer between his freshman and sophomore years at college, helping to coach at a local soccer camp. His sister Ella had opted to intern at a public policy think tank in Washington D.C., making her mother insane with worry.

  “Yeah,” Adam regarded him a minute in that disconcerting adult way he had. “Got your first team meeting today?”

  “Uh-huh. You can’t come, so don’t ask.”

  “Oh, man.” Adam slumped in his seat. “But I wanna meet….”

  “You will eventually, but I’m not foisting the family on these guys right off the bat.” Rafe put a glass of chocolate milk in front of him. “Your top priority today is to guide twenty rowdy ten-year-olds into the light of the beautiful game. Focus on that. Drink your milk.”

  “Whatever.” Adam smiled and chugged a huge glass of the stuff. “Hey, are those the uniforms? Can I see ’em?” He made a beeline for the large brown container near the door.

  “Sure, fine. But don’t….” The young man looked at him expectantly. But Rafe couldn’t think of a single thing he could do to harm the damn things. “Never mind. Have at it.” He kept sipping coffee, trying to quell the uneasy jumpiness.

  When his phone buzzed he sighed, noting Maureen’s brother’s name on the screen. “Yeah.”

  “Good luck today, Coach.”

  “Thanks. I think. How the fuck did you talk me in to this anyway?”

  “Her name is Maureen. You married her, and if I’m not mistaken, got her knocked up. That’s how.”

  “Oh, right.” He put his cup down and decided to end the conversation before he got even more uptight. Jack expected results, and Rafe fully intended to deliver them. But his heart pounded a little too hard for his taste at the moment, and he resented the pressure his brother-in-law put on him. “Well, I need to….”

  “Sara wants you guys to come over tomorrow night. Got some kind of a celebration dinner planned. Kids welcome.”

  “Oh, okay. I’ll let Maureen
coordinate it. I really gotta….”

  “I know. I know. I’m micro-managing. God knows I hear it enough from the missus. It’s just …now that all the players and pieces of the puzzle are in place and I can back off, I don’t want to.”

  “Tell you what, do me a favor and check in over at the new stadium today if you can. I know you love that shit, and I need to focus on the room full of prima donnas I just hired to play for me—well for Metin, once he shows up. But listen, Jack.” Rafe hesitated, unsure how to bring it up. “The thing with Nicco. It’s a no-go. He’s not interested. I need him to focus, and the team does not need the negative publicity. Can you tell the marketing harpies to back off about it?”

  “Sure thing. And for the record, I almost regret having you step aside as coach, now that I see your rapport with those guys. Also, for the same record, I agree with you about Nicco. The last thing we need is to be a target for gay-bashing assholes.”

  Rafe ran a hand through his hair, weighing how he should respond but relieved Jack agreed with him about Nicco. “No, Jack, I am not a coach at this level. I’m better off as his assistant. He’ll need a good cop figure, because he will likely come in and start bashing heads. I’ll bet you even money most of the old guard we have on the team will not want to listen to him at first.”

  He ended the call and sat gathering his thoughts. The marketing department had set up a blog designed to look as if it wasn’t part of their efforts. It had personal information, photos, and all sorts of crap about every player. The whole thing made Rafe very uncomfortable but he bowed to the promotional minds. If they were going to make an impact, break through all the clutter of options people had for their discretionary income and get them to buy tickets and attend matches, they had to be in the spotlight, even if they manufactured it. They had to make romantic heroes out of all the players, and of the team itself.

  The project had cost millions, including their Black Jacks stadium, which boasted a brew pub, two coffee shops, and several cocktail bars along with the usual concessions. It also had enough wireless technology embedded so no one would ever lose a signal, no matter how much bandwidth got used. Each seat was encoded so when fans checked in on their social networks they could show themselves via the cameras set into every possible angle with the “Black Jack Check In App” available for all smart phones for free.